


my love's confusing (but it never gets dull)

by zarahjoyce



Series: no rhyme and no reason [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, The King Beyond the Wall, The Queen in The North, lord these two will be the death of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: Perhaps, to her, what they are doing is something borne out of her duty, her need to have an heir - even if it means coupling with him for the better part of the week.But, to him--That first taste of her skin, the warm puffs of her breaths, the soft moans he stole from her mouth--He traces her lips with his eyes now, and surely she can feel the direction his thoughts are taking him for her cheeks soon turn pink.Gods.Sansa.





	my love's confusing (but it never gets dull)

"--what do you think?"  
  
It takes Jon a second to realize that she has just directed a question towards him. He clears his throat, looks away from the vision she presents, and prays that he'll be responding correctly when he answers, "It's... certainly feasible."  
  
She frowns and mulls over what she has written. "Is it?" Sansa bites her lower lip, unconsciously drawing his attention to her lovely mouth and making him feel--  
  
_\--fuck._  
  
He rises to his feet, choosing to go towards the window to look outside - where snow falls down in earnest. The cold, however, fails to touch that which smolders deep within him.  
  
That which only  _she_ can stoke.   
  
From behind him she says, with a hint of surprise, "I had thought you'd be more opposed to it."  
  
"Why?" he asks.  
  
"The Free Folks value their freedom above all else, don't they? Offering to open some portions of the North's borders to them... well, I thought it'd be something you'd balk at."    
  
Jon releases a breath he isn't aware he's holding in, in the first place. It seems his response before has not been a wrong one, after all. "As long as it's not an offer that they be under the North itself."  
  
She shakes her head. "No,  _of course_  not. I only wish to set up trading posts far more accessible to them than ever before." Sansa takes a map and studies it in earnest. "I'm a bit apprehensive of my ability to persuade some of the traders to put up stores so far up north, but I suppose any attempt is better than no attempt at all."  
  
He stares at her for some time before asking again, "Why?"  
  
"There are risks, as I'm sure you're aware," she replies, glancing at him, brows furrowing. "The regularity of customers, for one, since business will depend solely on--"    
  
"No," he says, stepping closer to her. " _Why_ are you thinking of the Free Folk?"  
  
Sansa blinks at him. "Should I not be?"  
  
Something in his chest unfurls more openly than before. "You have enough problems as it is," he says. "The North--"  
  
"--is at the forefront of my mind, now and for always," Sansa affirms without preamble. "It's just-- I want to look out for them as best as I can." She glances away from him for a moment, before meeting his eyes again as she adds softly, "They are  _your_ people, after all."  
  
For a moment, neither of them speaks.   
  
Then he says, his voice strangely hoarse, "Thank you, Sansa."  
  
The corners of her lips tug upwards into a small smile. "Don't thank me yet. This is just a proposal - not until I can do something more than just  _tell_ you about it. And I will act on it; you have my word." She rises to her feet. "It's the least I can do for you after--"  
  
\--their  _arrangement_ , she's called it, even when she does not name it as such now.  
  
Perhaps, to her, what they are doing is something borne out of her  _duty_ , her need to have an heir - even if it means coupling with  _him_  for the better part of the week.  
  
But, to him--  
  
That first taste of her skin, the warm puffs of her breaths, the soft moans he stole from her mouth--  
  
He traces her lips with his eyes now, and  _surely_ she can feel the direction his thoughts are taking him for her cheeks soon turn pink.  
  
_Gods._  
  
_Sansa._  
  
She will haunt him until the end of his days; he's sure of it.  
  
To him this is not duty; this is self-inflicted  _pain_.  
  
How else can one describe the knowledge that all  _this_ will soon end? That after a fortnight he can no longer touch her? That he'll be back to being unnecessary and unworthy of her?  
  
He clears his throat, not wanting to entertain the thought. Not yet,  _not yet._  "Have you seen the Maester?"  
  
She nods solemnly. Placing her hands on top of her stubbornly flat stomach she adds, "He says it's too early to tell, but the best course of action for now is to--"  
  
"--continue?" Jon asks.  
  
Sansa glances at him. "Unless you... don't want to," she says tonelessly. "Unless you've... you've grown tired of--"  
  
He reaches for her hand to pull her closer. "No, of course not!"  _Seven hells!_  If only she knew what her mere presence is doing to him  _right now_. "We agreed to this, Sansa. A fortnight. I can give you that; I  _swore_ it." He brings her hand to his lips; places a kiss on her palm. "Don't even think about that."   
  
She exhales slowly. "Jon," she whispers, her eyes on his mouth.  
  
"I'm only concerned about you," he says, looking into her eyes. "That perhaps I-- I might have been too--"  
  
Vigorous. Eager. Unbridled.  
  
And  _gods_ , it is so easy to just  _be_ when she's boneless and writhing under him - or high and magnificent  _above_ him.  
  
"If I had made you uncomfortable in any way--"  
  
Sansa shakes her head. "No. You haven't. It was-- it had been very..." She searches for a word before settling on, " _nice._ "  
  
"Nice," he repeats, some semblance of mirth starting to bubble up inside him.   
  
"Yes," she says softly. "I... didn't realize it  _could_ be that way."  
  
Jon rests his head on her shoulder, resisting the strong urge to pull her flush against him. His chest starts to shake; it takes him a second to realize that he's actually  _laughing_.   
  
At him, at her, at the absurdity of their situation.  
  
How long has it been since he's felt this way? He can't even remember.  
  
Just that it feels  _good_.  
  
That it feels right, around  _her_.  
  
"Jon?" she calls him, sounding worried as she pulls back so she can look at him and cradle his face in her hands.     
  
"Forgive me," he says, covering both her hands with his own, "for it seems that I have not been doing a spectacular job of pleasing you, my Queen, if all you can say about my ability is that it's... 'nice.'"   
  
Sansa frowns at him. "I wasn't trying to  _insult_ you, you know."  
  
"Oh, but I'm not insulted," he replies easily. "Merely...  _challenged_. I feel that there is an urgent need for us to improve upon 'nice.'" He steps closer to her, brings his lips to her neck to ghost a kiss along the side of it. "Will you let me?"   
  
She inhales sharply. "I suppose you may as well try," Sansa says, sounding as haughty as he's ever heard her, even as she tilts her neck to give him better access, " _if_ you can."  
  
Jon grins.  
  
And so he  _does_.


End file.
